A Simple Persuasion

In broken voice she asked, "What do you want?" She feared the answer, knowing anything at this point was not something she wanted to give.

Still breathing harshly into her ear, he began rocking their bodies gently side-to-side. "Now, we can make this easy, or you can't make it hard."

"What do you want? What do I have to do?" she said as tears began clouding her vision.

"Just tell me."

Through the deafening thudding in her ears, she waited for him to elaborate. "Tell you what?" she whimpered at last.

"Tell me, what you know, and what you've done with the information."

The man didn't make any sense. "What information? Know what? What are you talking about?"

"You are on the town council, yes? You voted last night against the proposal to expand the services for the fire department. Why?"

She gave a shuddering, mock-laugh. "That's why you're here? You're from the fire department? Because I said no? Maybe a closer examination of your current treatment of a council member should clue you into plausible justification. Are Lowe and Philman receiving the same, highly personalized treatment as me?" she bit out. The man was a lunatic. "You know, they should do something about committing you."

He grunted humorously at her audacity. Squeezing her tighter he said, "Very funny. But you really don't want to push any of my buttons. As it is, you're already scheduled for some handling I'm not so sure you can survive, do you really want me angrily coming up with more punishment?" He pushed her hard away from him towards the back wall. He blocked her access to the stairs. Regaining her balance, she quickly turned towards him. "Now, tell me."

When he had taken off his shirt, her heart had fluttered and she felt her core melt, flooding her lower lips. But now, seeing him in the eerie light and shadows the funky overhead cast, she felt terror that no common person ever feels. He was a monster. His hard-edged muscles looked like the contours of a mythical creature, alien and strange. He stood menacingly aware of her every heart beat. He looked ready to pounce, a predator cornering its prey.

Besides her stinking fear, outrage began to swell. I will not be bullied. Not by that overstuffed, conniving, deceitful, boorish cretin! Maybe it was her set, clenched jaw, or maybe the slow denial of her shaking head, maybe it was the fighting fists held tight at her sides, whatever her behavior, Lachlan was having none of it. With minimal interest, he reached behind his back and pulled a gun out, holding it threateningly at his side. He grated out one word. "Strip."

Her bravado melted away at the sight of the cold metal in his hand. But when he told her to strip, she nearly fainted. "Strip?" she whispered. "Why?"

His cold face broke out into an evil smile. "You won't need clothes where you're going." He watched her terror ratchet up, her shaking becoming noticeable again. She slowly shook her head. Lachlan sighed and lifted the gun. "Do it, you have no choice," he said casually, almost as if he were bored.

Knowing she had no choice, her face fell in disgrace. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she began to unbutton the short-sleeve blouse. She held it over her chest only momentarily as she realized there was plenty more for her to do. She dropped it and unzipped the short, flippy skirt, letting it slide down her legs. The room was so quiet, the rustling of the fabric as it fell sounded loud to her ears. She cringed at the thought of what she must look like. Her black, lace bra offered no cover for the modesty of her pink nipples. And the black satin underwear barely covered her mound. Without being told, she knew her shame was part of the torture and so felt it was appropriate she didn't attempt to hide. Her face still pointed down her body, her mortification keeping her from looking up. Heavy tears blurred her vision of her torso and limbs. A painful lump had lodged itself in her throat, and she knew she would break at any moment.

"You wear that to the geek office?" his hoarse voice groaned.

She looked up at him questioning, only to realize he was staring heatedly at her black stockings that came up to her thighs. She looked back down at her body, hiding the pain in her face. She wiped her tears away with one hand and nodded.

She could hear his harsh breathing, even from twelve feet away. "Take them off," he said, his voice a little less affected. Slowly, she lifted her right leg, and, catching the whisper thin material by her fingertips, she slid it down her thigh, over her knee, past her calf, and then off her foot. She let it gently fall to the pile of clothes before she did the other.

Please don't let him make me take them off, please don't let him... she silently pleaded with the powers that be. She clasped her hands in front of her, willing herself to poof, disappear. But it didn't happen. Instead, he walked up to her and pointed to the wall. On the ground was a bucket and tea cloth over it. "Use it, you have thirty seconds."

"Wh-what?"

"You aren't going to be able to take a piss for quite some time. I suggest you empty your bladder now. Twenty-five seconds."

"I-I can't! Not with you watching," her face had changed back from shame to terror. He gruffly sighed and walked back towards the stairs. "Twenty." He stood so that he faced away, but kept her in his immediate periphery. He could hear her whimpers and soft cries and then the soft, dribbling sounds against the wooden bucket, and then the full release. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four," he was turning around to her, watching as she slid the panties up past her mound before he could see any pubic hair. She quickly bent over to drape the courtesy towel over it and stood soldier still. Their modesty, they always do whatever they can to protect it.

He had walked back over to her. "In the hole," he said lightly. Normally, if he were treating another captured fighter, he would have used more shock-and-awe, yelling and jerking them around. But with Gracie, he knew more was to come, and yelling at her wasn't going to get him there.

She looked down at the black hole he had dug through her concrete floor and into the rich soil below. It was maybe thirty inches by thirty inches. She couldn't quite see the bottom, though saw that at least the sides were lined with a wooden panel. Her breathing immediately increased. She was shaking her head violently, tears brimming and falling over. "No! You're not going to put me in there! Just shoot me! I'm not going in there!" She was yelling at him as she backed away.

He took two steps and was immediately pressing her against the wall. With his hands high on her arms, he shook. "Stop! You're not going to die in there! Just shut the fuck up and get in that hole. Consider it your thinking hole. You're gonna start thinking about all the things you wanna tell me. I'll give you plenty of alone time, and when you're ready to talk, I'll let you out. Deal?" With her shoulders still firmly grasped in his hands, he drug her forward until her toes curled around the edge of the hole.

"No, please!" she whimpered.

"You'll be fine, trust me," he smiled, and dragged her in. She fell ricochet-like down the narrow hole. Her head was a good four inches below the surface line. As she looked up in panic, he laid the top board over. He quickly grabbed the sound-muffling pillow to put over that and then sat the giant drum laden with gravel on top. He could barely hear her screams, loud and desperate as they were.

He'd once survived seventy-six hours in the isolation tank before the hallucinations became too much. At first, he thought twenty-four hours for his little kitten would be fine, but after seeing her in her black lace, he didn't want to wait that long before she was refusing to answer his questions. He needed to distract himself and so escaped upstairs. Maybe he'd try her chocolate cake; she'd made it sound so good.